


Interview with Dave Strider

by Sinnykins



Series: Guardiancest AU [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Humor, guardian dave - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-18
Updated: 2012-08-18
Packaged: 2017-11-12 09:00:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinnykins/pseuds/Sinnykins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What inspired your latest movie?"<br/>"Well, I was butt-fuck drunk and trying to make myself a good ol' pb&j at 2 AM because fuck if I know how to make anything else and I couldn't see the numbers on the phone straight enough to dial for take-out..."<br/>The full, exclusive, uncut, uncensored interview with the one and only Mr. Dave Strider.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interview with Dave Strider

**Author's Note:**

> For some reason people liked that stand alone quote I posted a lot so I decided to make it into a fic?? ;u; also celebrating 3k+ hits on The Name of the Game, so THANK YOU EVERYONE WHO READ IT.....OR JUST CLICKED ON IT......YEAH......
> 
> This can be seen as a prequel to that or just a silly thing either way please enjoy u//w//u

People bustled around finishing their preparations for the filming – they were doing a live broadcast so most of the stage was already set, with two overstuffed armchairs and a coffee table and a few fake plants, and a giant flatscreen set into a “wall” behind them that would show the footage being recorded by the camera for those unable to sit up close and personal. He was seated in one of the armchairs, casually slouched back enough to look comfortable and relaxed, with one ankle resting across his knee and his hands folded atop his calf.

 

He sure as hell didn’t want to be here, but boy did he put up a class act; he looked like he belonged amongst the lights and cameras and bustling attendants, like he owned the stage and nothing could phase him. And sure, he was handsome as fuck, enough to pass for the budding young stars he offered employment to. Platinum blond hair cut close to the boyish features of his face, cascading about the dark aviators that obscured his eyes and complimented the lines of his cheek bones. His jaw was firm and solid, a strong edge to his face that exuded an air of masculinity he had been slightly lacking in his teen years.

 

The sharp cut of his suit spoke just as loudly as his poise about his important status. It was definitely tailored for his long, lean form, and the quality of the fabrics and stitching work offered a subtle professional edge to his otherwise laidback and uninterested expression. It was black, one of his preferred colors in the suit department, with a vibrant red dress shirt and a tie the same hue as his jacket and slacks. The contrast between the saturated colors played up the pale tone of his skin and hair, and yet his complexion prevented him from appearing washed out – a heavy powdering was entirely unnecessary.

 

Unfortunately the woman occupying the second armchair was not quite as fortunate. A couple attendants were fussing about her, tidying up her hair and dabbing a hundredth layer of powdered pigment onto her nose and cheeks while she complained the heat from the lights was making her sweat it off faster than they could smear it on. As they struggled with last minute primping, she began to ask for coffee, and when no one immediately appeared before her with the beverage, she became awfully venomous.

 

“I said, would someone bring me some god damned coffee? Christ, is it really that hard?” She snapped before swatting her buzzing entourage away and sighing irritably.

 

A vague smile, entirely wry in nature, tugged at his lips but it went unnoticed, as the broad was too self-absorbed in her pre-show irritability. It wasn’t unfamiliar to him, as he had dealt with plenty of prima donna type actresses, but he himself looked impeccably serene in comparison.

 

Not that she shouldn’t be nervous, people had been trying to score an interview with him for ages and he had finally relented. This was her big chance to go where no one had managed to go before, and if she blew it then it might very well spell the end of her career.

 

But, no pressure.

 

Someone brought her that cup of coffee and he could see in her eyes that she would have liked to complain about how it was prepared, if not for the fact that they gave the announcement to clear the set; they would be live very shortly, and she needed to compose herself into the proper attitude expected of an elite talk show host.

 

He casually leaned over in the moments before they would need to turn their microphones on and raised his eyebrows above the rims of his shades. “Just rein in your innate curiosity about my personal life and we can make this train run smoother than your waxed eyebrows, Chrissy.” Sure he’d warned these types plenty of times before that he wouldn’t take too kindly to the sort of prying that media figures tended to obsess themselves with, but it didn’t hurt to give a last minute reminder.

 

“Clarissa. My name is Clarissa, Mr. Strider,” she said with a broad smile, something meant to be polite, but the effect was offset by her tense tone of voice and the irritation furrowing said waxed eyebrows. In return he merely waved a hand as if brushing off his mistake.

 

“Right, close enough. Pretty sure Chrissy was the chick who picked up my dry cleaning this morning. You two look similar, got a shared taste for the hyper-bleached hair and the impenetrable wall of foundation lathered on your cheeks. Could use a little more copper tone to match your eyes but I mean if you’re going for the whole mannequin look you’re doing a fine job, and hey, who am I to say artificially dyed plastic isn’t attractive—“

 

Just as he was really starting to get on her nerves they were given the signal to turn on their microphones, and very shortly after the sign that it was time to begin. To her credit she managed to keep her agitation out of her expression and voice when she turned to face the audience with an overly peppy and excited look, though when combined with the sickeningly sweet little hand wave, the whiplash from her change in attitude made him feel a little nauseous.

 

“Helloooo Houston! We’re live on The Hot Spot, your number one source for celebrity news! I’m your host, Clarissa, and boy let me tell you – this spot sure is _hot_ with today’s guest around. Everybody please welcome Mr. Dave Strider!” She started to clap even before she’d finished her own words, and everyone followed along enthusiastically in their passionate greeting. He was pretty sure he heard someone shriek “have my babies”. Could have just been “sign my babies”, but either way he was vaguely amused at the level of energy rising in the room.

 

Vaguely amused, somewhat pleased with the level of his influence, and also exasperated with the necessity of his appearance. But he’d make the best of the situation and have his fun.

 

“Mr. Strider is, in fact, the _hottest_ movie producer of our generation, but he’s also known for writing his own scripts and doing his own directing – as well as being notoriously hard to get a word in with! It’s such an honor to finally have you on our show!” The glance she was giving him looked expectant, as if he truly was just an actor hired to play some role in her plot to up the show’s ratings.

 

“Been busy,” he shrugged with that same level of nonchalance even as his gaze wandered away from her and towards the sea of heads surrounding them, most of the features blocked out by the glare of lights. “All that magic’s gotta be made somehow, sure as hell don’t make itself. Otherwise you’d be interviewing it instead of me, huh?”

 

Most people seemed a little caught off-guard by his dry delivery, and weren’t entirely sure if it was meant as a joke or not, but it hardly took any time at all for the whole group to end up laughing. He just turned a mild smile to his “host”, his knee lazily beginning to bob but his hands remaining folded where they were. She gave a bit of a forced chuckle herself and waited for the rest of the laughter to die out before continuing smoothly enough.

 

“Yes of course you’ve been busy. You just released a new movie, didn’t you? Why don’t you tell everyone about it?”

 

He paused briefly as if in consideration, although it was hard to tell if he was being thoughtful or not with his eyes completely obscured. When he spoke up again his voice was rather slow and deliberate, a little more enunciated than his usual lazy drawl. “Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff have a serious burning passion for basketball…it’s honestly like pretty much the only highlight of their mundane as shit existences I’d say. They can’t get girls to save their life, they’re awkward as hell, god damn terrible at everything they do…and then there’s the big man who’s fucking boss at handling those giant ass balls. That guy really knows his way around tall, sweaty men and is even better at working ‘em over. The sheer overwhelming force of his skill is enough to bring those losers to their knees and make them cry for him to bestow his gift upon their unworthy patronages like a giant steaming load of testosterone mixed with victory. Try as they might though they just really suck ass at it, and in their struggle against crappy genes and a sad excuse for training I think the film does a pretty decent job at highlighting the oppression of society on our drives to pursue our callings in life and the sense of futility you end up feeling when you try and go against your nature.”

 

Sure he knew he was supposed to watch his tongue on live TV, but it seemed that his little experiment had proved him right; they were so desperate to have him there that they wouldn’t stop him – they’d merely censor the inappropriate words as they were picked up by the sound crew and probably apologize to the audience afterwards. It wasn’t like they couldn’t have expected this turn of events at all, but he still found the situation humorous.

 

There was a pause, a momentary break in the confident, charming, and capable air that this Clarissa gal had put up for the audience. Everyone seemed to notice it but he thought the level of stunning he had performed was about equal across his viewers. All according to plan, of course…the longer he spouted nonsense about his films, the less time they’d have to pry into his personal life.

 

“Well! That sounds…very thought provoking, Mr. Strider…it seems like you’ve put a lot of effort into making this movie meaningful despite the silly front it’s put up in advertisements.” It sounded like she was trying to give him a pat on the head for aligning with her perceived image of what a “movie artist” should be like. It was more evidence of what he meant to people – an eccentric movie producing cash cow that people didn’t understand, but that the “elites” of the entertainment world tolerated purely because his shit sold.

 

But he couldn’t have any of that. He was “eccentric”, after all.

 

“Nah, just joshin’ you. I wanted to make a movie about Sweet Bro repeatedly getting hit in the face with a basketball.” There was a mildly playful tone to his voice, but not enough to leave anyone the wiser about which statement was actually true. So maybe he got a bit of a kick out of leading people in circles and confusing the hell out of them…it was hard to help himself when they just walked right into it!

 

She gave another laugh, one that once again sounded unsure, but she seemed intent on treating his much less conventional confession as a joke. “You have a very interesting sense of humor! I’m looking forward to seeing more of your form of comedy in your film. Can you tell us about what inspired your latest movie?”

 

It was another opportunity to postpone the unpleasant questions and knock everyone off their game a little…and all just by being himself, of course. He shifted his posture, placing both hands behind his head and settling down as if to tell some kind of long, enlightening tale meant to leave everyone in both awe and appreciation of his immense level of artistic skill.

 

“Well I was butt-fuck drunk and trying to make myself a good ol' pb&j at 2 AM because fuck if I know how to make anything else and I couldn't see the numbers on the phone straight enough to dial for take-out. And while I'm spreading the jam on my bread and simultaneously managing to get strawberry shit over every part of the kitchen one of my mortally wounded fruit-covered hands went for my glass of jack D's but that shit's slipperier than sloppy seconds with a two cent whore and before I knew it I couldn't tell where the fruit guts ended and mine began -- not that my guts were coming out or anything, I think I was too hammered to have done anything other than laugh if I saw my small intestines spilling out my belly button so I probably wouldn't be here today if that was the case -- but anyway I ate my sandwich without remembering to put peanut butter or a second piece of bread on it, with glass shards embedded in my heels, and after I woke up the next morning the mess on the floor kinda reminded me of Canada so it only made sense to make my next movie about basketball."

 

The stunned silence settled in again but he just gave an easy little smile of sorts and tried to gauge the sputtering attempt at a reaction his host was offering up. That is to say, the wide-eyed stare of disbelief she had fixed him with, her posture still professional but her expression giving away her shock. She wasn’t even sure if she should be laughing at him anymore. He waited patiently for her to continue, all too happy to allow precious seconds to tick by as she regained her composure.

 

“…Definitely a plus to be able to find so much inspiration in the little things, especially such an unpleasant accident. Well, we’re really glad that you’re with us today!” That seemed to ignite a spontaneous round of applause, and she waited graciously for it to cease before starting up again. “On that topic, you’ve made several very successful movies using these characters of yours, Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff, but I don’t believe you’ve ever explained to us where the idea original idea came from?”

 

He gave a soft chuckle of his own and turned his gaze to his highly polished shoes, as if reminiscing fondly. It seemed to be assumed that everything he came up with was through some sort of otherworldly epiphany, and here they were, curiously trying to pick his cranium apart for a glimpse at where he got this inhuman ability to be so peculiarly amusing and abhorrently victorious. When he turned his eyes back towards Clarissa, his smile was almost secretive, as if he were thinking about some inside joke…or perhaps some very interesting tidbit of information he was choosing to hold above them, out of their reach.

 

“Pretty fascinating story, that one. I suppose it’s about time to share it, can’t keep all these juicy little details to myself forever after all. That’d make me an awfully selfish little shit, wouldn’t it? Let’s see…right, that night I was hammered – like, epic levels of hammered, the kind of sick hammering a tender young piece of plywood can only lie awake restlessly at night and dream of one day receiving…the kind that makes all the nails polish themselves up good and shiny and geets their shafts nice and stiff in anticipation. Yeah, you know what I’m talking about, it’s some serious KO with a side of holy shit how high do you even have to _be_ to drink that many shots. Well the answer is sea level, man, because I don’t really dig the puffing scene, but hot damn did I down the drinks that night. I probably would’ve tried to drive myself home, too, if I could hold the key steady enough to open my fucking car, but that bitch just didn’t want to take it and I wasn’t up to dealing with its ‘not tonight, Davie’ shit so I started to walk home. That might’ve worked out better except that once your blood alcohol content shoots up somewhere way over zero-point-one percent all the streets start looking the same and the words on the signs start turning into funny faces. Then again that might be because you’re wandering in a literal circle and the homeless guy sitting a little ways from you keeps laughing at you, but who’s gonna sweat the details here? Anyway, after I fell on my ass, dizzy as fuck and no longer able to recall what I was doing in the first place, the homeless guy offered to share his ratty old blanket with me. We spent the night drinking shitty liquor and looking at the stars through the haze of street lights and car smog. For some weirdass reason he kept calling me Jeff and I didn’t know his name so I called him bro, and the disjointed and broken conversation we had pretty much gave rise to the basic personalities of Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff.”

 

People seemed interested enough, from what he could tell. Or maybe just confused. His host, however, had grown steadily impatient from the drawn out and rambling explanation, one that also clearly lacked the brilliance she was expecting of him. Maybe they’d appreciate it more if he brushed it off as his interpretation of their age’s youth, or a spontaneous spark in the middle of a casual doodling session. The smile remained drawn across his lips as he waited patiently for her next question, seeming completely unconcerned with the effects his answers had on the audience.

 

It didn’t matter what stories he spun for them, whether they were truthful or a joke, whether they were inspirational or just plain bizarre. It didn’t matter if he came up with everything in an alcohol-induced haze, or if it came to him in a dream, or if he was sipping expensive coffee and overlooking a magnificent sunrise stretching its fingers of color over the soft, sloping curves of emerald hills. It didn’t matter who he was or how he did what he did because in the end he would continue to make crazy ass movies, and people would either like his work or hate it, regardless of the lives of anyone behind the scenes.

 

“That’s…very interesting.” She began slowly, although she almost appeared to have some difficulty with her word choice. “It’s uplifting to know that someone as successful as yourself has had moving experiences with the less fortunate people of our society.” Again she was looking at him expectantly, smiling in a way that was meant to prompt him towards some response. He said nothing, only shrugged.

 

“…Well, do you have any ideas for future works?” She was trying to remain polite, but he could see the way his lack of cooperation was wearing her down. They hadn’t picked the right individual to interview him.

 

“Nothing solid yet, I’d say, gotta give the old money maker some time to recharge the weird ass idea machine…takes a little while to collect more creative juices and stew up something worthwhile. Oh, but there was a little something I was starting to work with, no real harm in throwing it out there for you all to chew on and salivate over. See, I was completely wasted—“ he leaned forward like he was preparing to divulge some top secret tidbit, but found himself abruptly cut off.

 

“You sure do drink a lot, don’t you, Mr. Strider?” Came her tense interruption, her voice a little louder to overwhelm his, and laced with a warning edge like she was trying to nudge him back in line.

 

That was her first mistake, believing even for a moment that she could ever hope to direct the flow of his answers.

 

“Isn’t that what you’d expect from someone like me?” he responded evenly, without hesitation, in a tone that could almost be considered cordial. Hell, he was certainly still smiling away like this was amusing as fuck and he didn’t give a damn about starting shit on live television.

 

It shut her up, that’s for sure. It was like he’d put into words something that people quietly assumed, but was taboo to speak aloud, like “big name celebrity” was synonymous with “bad habits”, like it was just part of the job description and everyone kind of looked in the other direction when it came to certain famous people. In return those people played along and pretended like they didn’t do that kind of shit, except that when they fell out of line everything they’d ever done that might be taken poorly was plastered across headlines and spilled from the disapproving mouths of strangers they had never dealt with in person. It became a massive scandal…and here he was casually discussing the taboo, ripping himself open and laying it bare and challenging people to have the guts to judge him for it when it wasn’t sneaky-manipulative-behind-his-back-slandering-of-his-name.

 

So it came as no surprise that she had nothing to say.

 

“Don’t want to bore you with the crazy ass details of my journey of self discovery or anything here but yeah, wasted, couldn’t seem to find the remote for the TV, and ended up going through a marathon of kids movies while eating gas station nachos. And that’s the only morsel of info you’ll get out of me on the matter because there’s no point in going to see the future film if I spoil everything here and now. You just let your think pans gestate on the possibilities and excite yourselves silly with plenty of crazy ass fantasies and I’ll be sure to whip up something appropriately mundane in comparison.”

 

They were drawing near to the end of the allotted time for the interview, and he could see her rising agitation, now more visible in her face despite her best attempts to maintain her composure for the audience. Not only had he completely dominated the scene, disregarded her false sense of “authority”, and made her look the part of a fool on television, but she hadn’t learned anything juicy, or gotten anything good out of him to make this broadcast particularly noticeable. The fact that it was his first ever interview would only carry them so far if it didn’t have any content to feed the shark-like viewers circling, waiting for personal details to snap up and swallow down an insatiable gullet.

 

Of course he already had an inkling that she would break, but for her sake he really hoped that he had misjudged her.

 

“I’m sure everyone here is really looking forward to that,” she responded curtly. Everything about her was beginning to ooze the frustration she had been bottling up, as if it had become too much for her to hold in and was seeping out of tiny cracks beginning to spread across the surface of her cheerful composure. “But with all this writing and producing and directing you must not have much personal time, do you?”

 

Yup, she was trying to inch her way into dangerous territory, hoping he wouldn’t pay it much notice.

 

“Never really thought about it I guess. I do what I like and somehow I have plenty of time to fit in all the shit I’d like to get done.” He folded his arms over his chest, tapped a finger against his bicep, and raised an eyebrow at her, discreetly questioning her about whether she really thought this was the best course of action.

 

“So do any of those activities include seeing people?” Well, seemed she was disregarding his warning.

 

“Sure, I see plenty of people – I mean I can see fine out of these shades, I’m not blind. Just take a little walk out of the penthouse and I see the doorman, and he’s pretty boss. Wander down the street to the convenience store and I’m sure I see like a few dozen random fuckers parading around in their suits and shit, not like they pay me much mind. I see the clerk, the other patrons, my bros down at the office, all of you chill assholes sitting around admiring my stoic personage right now—“ He could have gone on and on, but she snipped her way right in, obviously fully aware of each wasted moment that slid out of her grasp, slowly leaving her empty-handed.

 

“Oh, yes, I’m sure you visit with a multitude of people each day. I meant someone special; are you seeing someone special?”

 

She was getting bolder in her desperation, and his expression might have been one of vague sympathy, if not for the fact that he wasn’t particularly concerned with benefitting the broadcast at his own expense. It was their own fault for basing their success on the nitty gritty details of the lives of other successful people, and she had probably chosen this path for herself.

 

“Huh…that’d probably depend on your definition of special. I know this one guy and hot damn is he ‘special’, if you consider ‘special’ someone who’s so fucking oblivious that he can lose his glasses when they’re sitting right there on his own face. Or this chick who can sip tap water out of a plastic wine glass and still look down her nose at you like she’s the god damn queen of England and your mind is the open book she reads for funsies next to a quaint little fire, using all that deep subconscious shit you didn’t even know you thought as the kindling, because hell, if that isn’t special I don’t even know what is.” Once again he was rambling to waste time and was fully prepared to go on and on without giving her what she wanted until their time was up and she would have to admit defeat.

 

But apparently it was important enough to her that he had backed her into a corner and she was desperate, determined, and here she was about to do something drastic in a last-ditch effort to save her career, to salvage this unprecedented opportunity…as if his presence wasn’t enough, and a lack of dirty information on his private life was the only thing that would make this interview worthwhile. She sat straight and looked him dead in the eye with the chilling resignation of a brainwashed soldier ready to go down fighting. He met her gaze without flinching, his expression an impenetrable wall as he tried one last time to wordlessly ward off her attempts.

 

“ Mr. Strider, are you gay?”

 

Everyone went dead silent.

 

The stage, the audience, the filming crew, everyone. It felt like the whole world was holding its breath and staring at him, partially in shock for her bluntness, and partially because it was one of those questions they’d been secretly itching to know the answer to.

 

He let out a slow, quiet breath, the line of his mouth mildly disapproving, but nothing else in his demeanor seemed affected by the abrupt personal inquiry. He took his time reaching over to the coffee table set up before them, picking up a previously untouched glass of water. Everything about him screamed calm composure as he sipped the water as casually as if they were still discussing his films and there weren’t thousands, if not millions of people waiting on the edges of their seats for his response.

 

Dave set the glass back down and leaned back in his chair, settling himself, ever aware of the ticking clock and exactly how much time they had left. It was all timed very deliberately on his part.

 

“…While I’m totally flattered that you’re interested in me enough to fantasize about who I rub nasties with, I’m afraid that’s none of your god damn business, miss. Last time I checked I didn’t make a fuckton of money choking on dicks – I make movies to provide people with entertainment, and their success has nothing to do with who I choose to bang the ever loving shit out of when I got a stiffy to take care of. So just where did you get the idea that you got a _right_ to turn the entirety of my existence into a comedy for slack-jawed shitheads to point and gawk at, merely because I happen to have some skills that helped me hit it big? Sorry princess, but if you want me to keep on keeping on with the shit I do best then it’ll be by my rules, not under the pretense that the minute I made the world something nice to play with I suddenly became a public monument for freeloading pigeons to take a dump on.”

 

And now that she was once again stunned, speechless, and stripped bare of her offensive attitude, he got to his feet and nonchalantly smoothed his suit down just as the clock approached zero.

 

“What do you know, we’re out of time. Great talking with you Chrissy-Clarissy-whatever the fuck you called yourself again. Later, folks!” He gave a brief, sweeping wave to the stunned audience and walked himself off the stage in the pervading silence.

 

As he sauntered past crew members, no one made to stop him or to say anything – they merely watched him go with those same stunned expressions, and once he made it into the warm evening air, he lifted his shades enough to rub at the bridge of his nose in slight exasperation.

 

It was time to spend a night in with his laptop and a strong drink.


End file.
